


Dirt

by Barsick



Category: Joker (2019), Taxi Driver (1976)
Genre: Depression, M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22100797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barsick/pseuds/Barsick
Summary: Travis meets Arthur.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Travis Bickle
Comments: 6
Kudos: 177





	1. Cat under wheels.

The downpour could not wash away all the dirt from the streets of New York. Perhaps even the great flood could not do it. Travis liked to imagine how powerful torrents of water hit the city, how prostitutes, pimps, drug dealers, corrupt police officers disappeared into them with wild screams... And also him. He's no better, he's dirt. A worthless man who doesn't know what to do with his life. The taxi meter clicked placatingly, and the windshield wipers moved monotonously. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Empty. Travis's head is a stifling vacuum. The passenger asked to turn off the radio, now there is no escape from the sounds of night life. Drunken laughter, screeching, high-pitched sirens. Travis is disgusted to hear this terrible cacophony, it is as deafening as the explosions of bombs. Sometimes he regrets the war was over. In the war, everything was simple. Like black and white. It was scary, it was painful, but there was always a chance for a decent death, for deliverance, justified, understandable.  
The rain continued to fall, and the car sank its wheels into the flooded pits. Travis felt like a fish in an aquarium of dirty water, a half-dead, sluggish fish. It was a good thing his boss never asked him about the pills. Travis eats handfuls of them. In the morning, to sleep and not vomit insides, in the evening to stay awake and drive. The instructions are clearly written about the incompatibility of taking pills with driving a vehicle. Travis was at the doctor's. The doctor said that he had PTSD and sleep disorders, and advised him to walk more, find a job, go on a date. From three points it turned out only with work. And of course he had prescribed pills, a dozen colorful plastic jars that now covered the entire surface of his bedside table. They made Travis feel like a boiled vegetable, or, as now, like a slowly dying fish, indifferent and unfeeling. Who knows, maybe the pills were the only anchor that kept him from swimming in the stinking blood of the city's parasites. Travis had weapons: a hunting knife, a Magnum revolver, a colt, and a pair of pistols. From time to time he went to the shooting range and practiced shooting. The effect of the pills slowed his reaction, but he is still accurate enough.  
"Hey! Stop here! the passenger's voice pulls Travis out of his viscous trance. Generous customer. New green papers are sent to a shabby box with the proceeds. He could have moved from a small and dirty rented apartment to a bigger and cleaner place long ago, but he doesn't want to. He's fine as it is. He has a couch, a table, a TV, a toilet, a two-burner gas stove, a bath, and a refrigerator. Necessary minimum. The army didn't have that either.  
Travis turns on the radio, and the slow jazz melody makes him sleepy. The car slowly crawls on, past the painfully bright signs of porn theaters, past the predatory packs of prostitutes, past the homeless sleeping on the sidewalks, past, past... Travis remembers Iris. And she? Does she remember him often? A strange guy born under the sign of Scorpio. A little foolish, obsessed with horoscopes, Iris.  
Travis slams on the brakes as a bright red spot appears in the headlights. The guy jumped out onto the road like a freaking scared cat. White face, wild crazy eyes, red suit. Then a blow.


	2. Waking up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Travis has some troubles.

Travis jumped out of the car. Or it just seemed. Maybe he actually was crawling out like an earthworm. A thin man lied on the wet pavement in the yellow light of the headlights. His face was made up like a clown, and his hair was dyed green. There was no blood anywhere. "Damn! If only the fucking psychopath is alive!" - Travis kicked the car with desperate anger. A fountain of muddy spray bursted from under his boot. "May be it serves him right? I don't know what kind of man he is... What if he's a pedophile maniac? Like that bastard John Gacy." That's what Travis thought as he squatted down next to the motionless clown. Travis checked his pulse. A thin vein twitched faintly rhythmically under his fingers on bony wrist. Alive.  
Travis picked him up and carried to the back seat of the taxi. The guy was still unconscious. Travis sited for a while, gripping the steering wheel and stupidly watching the wipers work. Tick-tock. Very similar to a pulse. A loud car horn spurred him on. Travis abruptly moved off. He wouldn't take his sudden passenger to the hospital. He would take him to his flat. A wry grin appeared on Travis's face: "I'll give you a physical, you bastard."  
Travis's appartment stinked of cheap cigarettes, rotten water, and dirty socks. Cramped, cluttered, and empty. The apartment did not have any of those things that create comfort. No statuettes, no framed photos, no trinkets. Just one battered poster on the wall. "Be organizational" is written on the poster. An outdated, unfunny joke. Travis's humor was bad.  
Travis laid the guy on the couch. "I'll wait for you to wake up. I'm in no hurry. While I prepare the tools." He almost lovingly layed out the weapons on the table. For a moment, his doubts came back. What if the guy just had too much and was coming back from a party? What if he's making the kids happy in the hospital?  
The phone call maked Travis jump like he was been scalded. He grabbed the phone before he realized that he probably shouldn't have do it.  
"Bickle, motherfucker! What the fuck are you doing?!" -  
the chief's voice was like the barking of a mad dog. Travis winced.  
"What's the matter? What have I done?"  
"Don't twist my balls, asshole! One of my guys saw you hit a man and drive off!"  
"The lunatic threw himself under my wheels. I tried to slow down, but it was too late. I took him to the hospital - "Travis was trying to stay calm.  
"One more misconduct, Bickle, and you're fired! Fired! Remember that!" Then only short beeps were heard in the phone tube.  
Travis clenched his fists painfully.  
"Mom? Mom, where are you?" - the voice sounded scared. The stranger came to himself. He sited on the crumpled bed, holding his head with one hand, and looked around warily. When he saw Travis, he crawled back against the wall."Where is my mother? What did you do to her?!"


	3. Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything goes wrong.

“Nn... nothing...” - Travis was taken aback. This was not the kind of question or behavior he had expected from his prisoner. Although, it was impossible to call him a prisoner in full. “What are you talking about? Hey, you're actually in my house, and I'm asking questions here!”  
Just in case, Travis hid the gun behind his back. Very slowly, without sudden movements, he began to come closer.  
"Please! Please don't kill me, mister!"- the guy whimpered like a small child, tears slid down his cheeks white from makeup, - " I'll do anything you want, anything! Just don't kill me, and then let me go to my m-mother. She won't survive if something happens to me! I won't tell anyone! I swear!" The guy slid to the floor and hugged Travis's legs. Tears blurred and mixed the colors on his face, and blue lines ran down from his eyes, ending in a red-and-purple fake smile. His thin hands hesitantly reached for the belt on Travis's jeans.  
“What are you doing?! Your motherfucker!" - Travis stepped back, throwing off the guy's hands. “With me, this performance will not pass! Stop the show, you fucking clown!" - The cold muzzle of the gun rested on the guy's forehead. His big green eyes filled with genuine horror. And then something happened that made Travis even more discouraged. The guy began to laugh, a loud barking laugh that broke out into something like the screeching laughter of a hyena. Travis had heard a similar laugh once when one of his fellow soldiers had lost his mind. The soldier laughed and laughed, until he cried and snotted, while the people around him were turn to pieces. Travis's stomach felt as if a lump of marsh mud had suddenly grown up in his stomach and was quickly crawling up to his throat. Travis doubled over and vomited the contents of his stomach onto the floor. As Travis came to himself, breathing hard, he suddenly realized how ridiculous the situation looked from the outside. One fucking psychopath with a smudge of clown makeup on his face bursts into laughter, while the other vomits uncontrollably, trying not to drop the gun held to the forehead of the first. Travis instinctively puts his free hand over his mouth in bewilderment as hysterical laughter erupts from his throat, mixed with hiccups and burps. Unable to stand on his feet any longer, Bickle sinks to the floor. He's still holding the gun in his hand, but he's not pointing it at the guy anymore. Having mastered his sudden hysteria, Travis looked at the man across from him. He stopped laughing, too, and looked at Travis intently.  
“Shit... I'm not good in kidnapping... What's your name?”  
"Ar... Arthur. My name is Arthur.”  
"And I'm Travis. How old are you, Arthur?”  
"I'm eight.”


	4. Not a dream.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur needs help.

Travis opens his mouth, but doesn't say a word. He tries to detect signs of falsehood in the look of the one who called himself Arthur. There's nothing there but fear. Travis puts the gun on the floor next to him and grabs the guy's chin. He flinches and blinks.  
"So you're serious? Travis rubs his temples wearily.  
"Yes, sir," Arthur says quietly, lowering his head.  
"What's the last thing you remember?"  
"I went to the pharmacy to get medicine for my mother. She doesn't sleep well and is often nervous. I had almost reached the drugstore when it became quite dark... And then... I don't remember... Please take me home." Arthur sniffed, his lips quivered, and tears began to flow from his eyes again.  
"Perhaps this is a reasonable solution... Where do you live?"  
Arthur gives a fictitious address. As a taxi driver with experience, Travis understands this immediately.  
"Why are you making this up? Are you from new York at all?"  
"I'm not lying! And I didn't say I from new York! I live here in Gotham with my mom!"  
"Gotham? I've never heard of such a city... My God, you're so screwed up... Okay. It's not easy, but it's necessary," Travis muttered under his breath.  
Arthur shivers and sobs like a little lost boy. Travis looks at him for a long moment. He does not know how to comfort, does not know how to be sensitive, but something stops him, makes him doubt his decision.  
"Come on, Arthur, I'll show you something. Don't worry, I won't hurt you,"Travis reaches out to help Arthur up.  
Arthur obediently leans on Travis's hand, and then follows him into the tiny bathroom, where a small, toothpaste-spattered mirror hangs over the sink.  
What do you see? Travis points to the reflection in the mirror.  
Arthur looks uncertainly at the mirror, then at Travis. He hesitates, as if afraid to answer incorrectly.  
"I see a clown and a strange man."  
"I mean, I'm the strange man," Travis says to himself. "There's nothing wrong with the clown, he's not fucking strange!"  
Continues already aloud:  
"Clown... In General, this is you, your reflection... You're clearly not eight years old, Arthur. Look at you."  
Arthur's eyes widen, become wild, like a cornered cat's.  
"No!"he screams and slams his fist into the mirror. Thin lines of cracks run down the glass, and blood runs down Arthur's hand.  
"You were hit by a car and lost your memory. Arthur, I don't know what's wrong with your mother or where she is now, but you're definitely not all right."  
Arthur looks at his hands, the hands of a grown man, he looks at Travis, they are the same height, he glances at the mirror...  
"This is a dream... I'm sleeping now..."- Arthur sits down on his haunches, puts his head in his hands, and begins to rock rapidly. Travis sits down next to him and puts his hands on his shoulders:" Unfortunately or fortunately, you're not sleeping. You need to go to the hospital, they'll help you. Okay?"  
"To Arkham?!"  
"I don't know. I'll call an ambulance and tell them what happened. They'll decide where to put you."  
"No! I dream of you! I'll Wake up and you'll disappear!" - Arthur laughs hysterically, pushes Travis away, and runs out of the bathroom. Travis rushes after him.  
"Arthur! Put it back!"  
Arthur holds a heavy Magnum in his trembling hands.  
"Get lost!"


	5. Under the paint.

"Arthur, don't be silly. I was in the Marines, and I'm not easy to kill. I know I've been an ass to you. But now I understand. I was wrong. I'm sorry about this shit. And for any reason put the gun on the table please", Travis raised his hands, palms out.  
"I'll shoot, and it'll be over! The nightmare will stop!"  
"You're wrong, boy."  
Travis was instantly at Arthur's side, knocking the Magnum out of his hands with a deft blow.  
Arthur sobbed and covered his face with his hands, as if trying to hide himself.  
"Please let this nightmare end. Let it end, let it end!"  
"Listen to me, okay? I'm an adult, right? And adults need to be listen to, they are smarter and more experienced than children. So come on, sit down. I'll bring you some tea with sugar to calm you down a bit. Agree?" Travis patted Arthur's head. Every touch made him shudder as if he had been struck. "Be a good boy, and all will be well."  
Arthur sat down on the edge of the bed, hiding his hands between his trembling knees. When Travis brought him the tea, he couldn't hold the mug and dropped it on the floor.  
"No matter. I will bring you one more".  
Travis picked up miraculously not broken mug and wiped the spilled tea with toilet paper.  
The second attempt was better, and Arthur took a few sips spilling the tea aroud. Travis sat down next to him.  
"I'm not a monster, Arthur. More truly... Heck... I'm a monster, but I won't hurt you... I won't do it again.  
"You're a piece of shit, Bickle. A real master of communication! Just a genius of psychology! Damn bastard!" he swore angrily to himself in his head.  
"Thank you," Arthur said in a low voice , almost whisper. - Delicious tea".  
"Realy?" Travis raised his eyebrows. "Do you want to wash? Your face must be terribly itching."  
"Yeah..."  
"You will do it by yourself or can I help you?"  
"I... I don't want to see myself in the mirror. I'm afraid".  
"Okay. Then Sit here. I'll wash you".  
Travis scooped up everything from the night table, set a bowl of warm water on it, and picked up a new roll of paper and a dish towel. After soaking pieces of paper in water, he carefully wiped the paint off Arthur's face, and threw the used paper on the floor.  
"Well, that's all. You still can have some paint behind your ears, but I don't have any paper anymore. Hold a towel and dry yourself", Travis smiled and winked to Arthur.  
Arthur obediently took a towel and carefully wiped his face. His hands no longer trembled.  
"Good boy".  
Travis was glad that he was able to drag Arthur to the mirror before his makeup was gone. Without makeup this guy looked older. He looked about forty. Maybe less. Excessive thinness and dark circles under his eyes did not add to his freshness.  
"Am I still that old?" he asked timidly, obviously hoping for a negative answer.


	6. The hit in the head.

"More likely than not,” Travis sighed wearily. - "You know? I won’t call an ambulance. It seems to me that you may well be put into a psychiatric hospital without bothering to figure out what's what. I don’t think you need to go there right now. New York Psychiatric Clinic is a dirty hole.  
"My mother was treated in Arkham ..."  
"Is Arkham the name of a psychiatric hospital in Gotham?”  
"Yes ... But mom forbids me to ask about this hospital. She says it is a bad place."  
"Ha! The way it is. Although "bad" ... It's not enough bad word to describe such a fucking shit like madhouse. Do you mind if I smoke?"  
"No. My mom smokes too."  
Travis has been looking for cigarettes throughout the apartment for a long time, but he does not find anywhere.  
"Oh shit!" - Travis with an annoyance slaps his forehead, - "I left the last pack in the car."  
Arthur tugs on buttons on his vest, casting careful, quick glances at Travis.  
"I can run for cigarettes ... I'll return instantly!"  
"You are such a clever boy! Want to get away you little dodger? No way!" Travis shakes his head reproachfully, - By the way! By the way do you happen to have a pack of LM? Check the pockets".  
Arthur looks scared and indignant.  
"From where ?! I do not steal cigarettes from my mom! I know how bad this is!"  
"I'm fucking tired of you talking about your fucking mother! Little Mom's henchman! Mom , mom ... Endlessly! You smell like smoke a kilometer away! Check your pockets or I'll do it for you".  
“But ...,” - Arthur’s knees begin to bounce again.  
"Come on!"  
Arthur pinches his mouth with his hand, trying to drown out the sudden burst of laughter. With the other hand, he frantically searches for a pack of cigarettes in his pocket, confident that it cannot be there. But it is there. Arthur awkwardly pulls it out and looks at the pack, dark red and white, slightly crumpled, with black letters "Marlboro" on it. His laughter intensifies, he chokes and gasps, wheezes.  
Travis squats across from him, carefully picks up cigarettes and puts it in his pocket.  
"What is the matter with you? This laughter ... It is not because you really having fun. Yes?"  
Arthur shakes his head from side to side.  
“Did I scare you again? Is it because of me?" - Travis puts his hands on Arthur's knees and strokes it carefully.  
Arthur doesn't answer. He sits with his face buried in the bend of his elbow and his eyes closed tightly. His sharp bony knees jump under Travis's palms. Small, fragile Arthur, a sick stray child in the body of an adult man.  
Travis feels the heat rise from his neck to his temples, as it quickly sweeps his whole head in hot waves. The pulse rumbles like an old train in a subway tunnel. Travis puts his hand on top of Arthur's, desperately clutching the coverlet.  
"Arthur ..." is all he can say. The roar does not abate in his head. He must do something to stop this madness, to fix it ... Travis is trying to think, concentrate, find at least something rational in his galloping thoughts. Everything is falling apart.  
“Arthur ...” he repeats and catches him in his arms, awkward, cowardly, wrong.


	7. Returning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is beginning to recover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter.

Arthur stops shivering, it's even seems that he is not breathing. His shivering is like a virus being transmitted to Travis. "I am a God's lonley man" - a phrase written in pencil in his battered diary, etched in his diseased brain. Travis knows that he will always be alone, that it is necessary. He can't remember the last time he hugged someone. When he was a child? In the war? A mocking voice in his head whispers venomously: "How did you even remember how to do this and not screw up? Why are you shaking like a pissed-off puppy? You're a jerk, Bickle, you're crazy. You're a fucking freak."  
"I'm a fucking freak..." - Travis repeats automatically in Arthur's ear. He feels the thin arms wrapping hesitantly around his waist. Arthur hugs him back, clinging to him. So skinny that Travis can feel it through three layers of clothing.  
"Will you teach me to smoke?"  
"What?"  
"I've been wanting to try it for a long time, but my mother will notice if I take a cigarette from her, and I don't have any friends..."  
"Not at all?"  
"Yeah..."  
"Emn... Well... Okay"  
Travis pulls away back and looks at Arthur, his green curly hair disheveled, his eyes glistening, his cheeks flushed. Travis finds himself wanting to kiss him.  
"Travis, you just haven't hugged anyone in a million years, you're out of your mind. Calm down and pull yourself together, " he says mentally, sitting down far away from Arthur.  
The venomous voice of his alter ego immediately wakes up: "You're not only sick in the head, Bickle! You're also a faggot! Why did you stop? Put the gun to the back of his head and fuck him!"- Travis remembers Arthur kneeling in front of him, begging him to let go, and reaching for the belt on his jeans.  
"What's wrong with you?"- now Arthur carefully puts his hand on his shoulder and looks anxiously into his face.  
Travis glances at the hand on his shoulder like at a deadly spider.  
"I"m okay. Just... Fuck! Let's have a smoke, shall we?"  
"Looking for my bony ass, Travis baby boy?"- Arthur sayd not in his own, some malicious voice and mocking giggles.  
A moment later, he looks like he's terrified of what he said.


	8. That's finally happen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Travis caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for a long time silence.

Travis should have already stopped wondering, but he was again taken by surprise.  
"What was that now?"  
“Nothing,” Arthur squeals in a crushed tone and quickly grabs a cigarette from the pack in Travis's hand. He clamps the cigarette between his lips so habitually and deftly, so mundane and natural, that Travis automatically holds out a cigarette lighter. Arthur lights up quickly and nervously, puffs out eagerly and lets out long streams of smoke from his nostrils.  
"Arthur?"  
"Mm?"  
"What the fuck? I ... Fuck what does it all mean?" - Travis jumps up from the couch and hangs over Arthur.  
"What is it"?" - Arthur looks innocent, but does not look into the eyes.  
"And the fact that I do not have to teach you to smoke! You divorced me as a schoolboy! Are you by any chance going to be nominated for an Oscar?" - Travis grabs Arthur by the hair and throws his head back, - "Let's lay it out, you little shit!"  
A cigarette falls out of Arthur's mouth, his eyes closed.  
"Look at me!" - Travis pulls his hair.  
Arthur looks up. He is silent, pursing his lips in a thin line. Tears again tremble in his eyes.  
"Damn, Arthur! Why are you crying all the time ?! What should I do with you?"  
“Kiss me,” Arthur smiles coquettishly. He looks like a child who asks to buy him a new toy.  
While Travis thinks how to react to him, Arthur tenaciously grabs his jacket and jerks himself sharply. This takes Travis by surprise, he opens his mouth, either from outrage or from the desire to say something, and again makes a mistake. Arthur digs into his mouth with a greedy, evil, inept kiss.


	9. The talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Trev finally begin to talk to each other in a way close to normal dialogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long silence. I have bad times.

Travis pushes him roughly away, wiping his lips in panic, as if there's poison left on it.  
"What is it, Travis? Did little Artie get you dirty? " - Arthur meows in mock sympathy. "Bad dirty boy!"  
"You ... you ... fucking psychopath!"  
Arthur jumps back into the corner.  
"Do you want to kill me, cowboy?"  
Travis is very angry, he is ready to smear this buffoon on the wall. He grabs Arthur's hands, squeezes them tightly. It seems that Travis will break them in a little while.  
Arthur winces painfully and sobs.  
"It hurts, mister," he whines.  
Travis feels like a complete fool. He can't figure out if Arthur is faking it to mess with his head, or if he's actually so sick of losing his memory. One thing Travis is sure of is that Arthur is not right in the head.  
"If you stop growling and barking at me like a mad poodle, I might tell you who I am. And perhaps you will even be satisfied with this story" - Arthur looks serious and straight, and his voice seems to have become a tone lower. Now he looks like people used to call a normal person.  
Travis releases his wrists and sits down wearily on the couch.  
"Go on".  
"You bought it again!" - Arthur squeals with joy and plops down on Travis's lap.  
Travis shoves him to the floor.  
"I'm losing interest. Either talk or get out."  
"You're going to throw a mentally unstable guy with partial memory loss out on the street?! After knocking him down and threatening him with a gun?!"  
Arthur hugs Travis's legs and looks up at him with wide eyes.  
"Will you go to the police?" Travis's mouth twists in a sarcastic smile.  
Arthur wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. "And you?"  
"It's up to you, little Artie" Travis lights a cigarette and chokes on it.  
"Pat you on the back?" Arthur is still sitting on the floor, but is ready to get up.  
"I'll manage," Travis hisses.  
Arthur shrugs.  
"Can I have one?"  
"Here," Travis hands him his cigarette and lights a new one.  
"Well... Let's get started."  
Arthur is stretched out on the floor, eyes closed, hands folded, cigarette smoking between his lips. He doesn't say anything, and neither does Travis, but they do it in completely different ways. Arthur is silent awkwardly, tensely, like a schoolboy, like a patient at the first meeting with a psychologist. Travis's silence is like the silence before the click of a shutter, the silence of the dead night that is about to be broken by the howl of an air RAID alarm.  
"The thing is, Trev, I don't know who I am," Arthur says without opening his eyes, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. "All my life, I pretended to be a different person, wore a mask, and played tricks on people. It didn't work out, you know... No one believed that I was kind, honest, or funny..." Arthur turns his head sharply and stares at Travis.  
Travis nods vaguely, puffing on the bitter smoke.  
"I didn't really believe in the good boy I pretended to be." Arthur crinkles his nose in disgust and turns away from Travis. "You must bring smiles and laughter to this world, Happy "Arthur makes his voice squeaky" So my mother used to tell me."  
"Did she call you 'Happy?" Travis raises his eyebrows in surprise.  
"Aha. And your mother probably called you "Sugar pie"?" Arthur laughs out loud and turns on his side to face Travis.  
" No. Most of the time I heard her say something like "Travis jerk" or "Travis idiot", sometimes just" little twat " Travis also laughs and lies down on the floor next to Arthur.  
Arthur looks at him curiously


	10. I was never really here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of story.

"Have you ever killed people, Trav?”  
The question drives Travis into a stupor, his expression becomes blank. Arthur looks intently, inquiringly, with ominous observation.  
"Um ... you don’t have to deal with delicacy, right?"  
Travis is not sure whether he should answer honestly, and whether he should answer in principle.  
“You boasted that you were a former Marine. So ... The answer lies on the surface. But I asked about something else. Did you kill people not in war? Like me, for example? Those who are called garbage, scum, dirt. You put a gun to my head and threatened to blow my brains out, and, you know, you were very convincing."  
“Yes,” Travis replied quickly, like a bullet, like a short well-aimed shot.  
Arthur beamed.  
"I knew it! Who was that? "He frantically fidgets, licks his lips.  
“Bad guys.” Travis frowns in dislike.  
"They got what they, their mother, deserve!" Arthur hisses hisses and punches the floor. “Would you do it again?”  
"I ... I don’t know ... Damn! Yes!" Travis closes his eyes and shakes his head, as if trying to drive away the sight. His pulse quickened, his heart seemed to be cramped in his chest. Arthur was breathing noisily nearby, drilling the space with insanely burning eyes.  
“Did you kill any bad guys too, Arthur?” Travis manages to calm down a bit.  
Arthur giggles, shrugging his shoulder intently.  
"Yeah. Five bad boys and one crappy girl. I really liked it."  
"I only can envy. My act brought me nothing but devastation. I wanted to put a bullet in my head ... But fate didn’t have enough for me. Sometimes I feel like trying again."  
"I can help! " Arthur folds his fingers in the shape of a pistol and puts it to Travis's temple.  
Travis smiles tiredly and shakes his head.  
“Thanks for participating, Arthie, but right now I don’t want to die. You can take it as a compliment."  
"You want to say that I returned your interest in life ?!"  
"Sort of."  
Arthur rolls onto his stomach and awkwardly gets on all fours first, then, staggering, gets to his feet.  
"Head spin, damn."  
"You have a concussion I think. Call an ambulance?" Travis continues to lie on the floor and looks up at Arthur.  
"Not worth it. Life hit me on the head so often that now it can nail up."  
Arthur smiles sadly, stretches lazily, crunching his joints.  
"I do not want you to leave."  
Travis feels this awkward painful desire in Arthur's movements, in his distantly sad voice.  
“I was never really here, Travis. I'm just a mirage, an absurd dream, dirt on the windshield. You wake up, turn on the wipers, and they will erase and wash me off."  
Arthur sits down next to Travis, who continues to lie on the floor, unable to rise as if glued. He leans in and kisses Travis gently on the cheek.  
“Don't remember me.”  
Arthur leaves.  
Travis hears his footsteps, hears the sound of a door closing, but cannot move. He seemed to be paralyzed.  
“Come back” he whispers almost inaudibly, barely moving his lips. That's all he can do. It seems to Travis that he is dying, life is slowly flowing out of him, leaving him numb and cold on the dirty floor. It's getting dark. Travis makes the last attempt to linger, to maintain consciousness. He blinks, sees a faint flash of light, and plunges into darkness.  
When he opens his eyes, he sees only muddy spots that gradually turn into spots of dirt on the windshield. Travis touches his forehead, fingers become wet and sticky, he has a terribly headache. Looks like he hit his head on the steering wheel. He very vaguely remembers what happened, it is hard to think. He seems to have hit someone. Gathering strength, Travis gets out of the car. In the yellow light of the headlights, two small red puddles glisten on the dusty asphalt. Travis looks under the car; there is no body anywhere. Travis gets dark before his eyes, his stomach shrinks vilely. He pinches his mouth with his hand and climbs back into the taxi.  
“I was never really here" he repeats after someone he cannot remember.


End file.
